


Now Then, Tell Me

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: London, Masturbation, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-15
Updated: 2011-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You were brilliant today."    "...Go on."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now Then, Tell Me

How considerate. Sherlock had left John one crab wonton, out of the six they'd ordered. He'd also picked all of the prawns out of the fried rice. Next time, John would insist that Sherlock take the shower first, so he could divide the cartons evenly and have his fair share.

The smell of fried carbohydrates and almond sauce quickly overwhelmed the clean, soapy smell John had brought with him into the kitchen. He ate his one wonton and picked the peas out of the rice, listening through the walls to the pipes humming and the faint splash of water into the tub. When he finished, he put away what was left and cleared the empty cartons.

It was so nice and quiet, John couldn't bear to put the telly on. He stretched out on the sofa to find out whether the vicarious thrill of solving a case would keep him up for hours yet, or whether his body had just been waiting for him to close his eyes so it could proceed immediately to NREM stage one.

He wasn't sure what woke him, a sleep twitch or Sherlock's return from the bathroom. A fresh burst of warm, soap-scented air accompanied Sherlock. In his pyjamas and dressing gown, he flounced about the room, still in high spirits. John closed his eyes again, hoping Sherlock would retire to his bedroom or at least settle in here; he was too tired now to move from the sofa.

"Budge over, John."

When John refused to move, Sherlock grabbed both his legs to rotate him into a sitting position. Before he could complete the act, John gave him a fierce kick in the ribs and sat himself up. "No need to be an arse about it," he grumbled.

Sherlock plopped down next to him, unfazed by the smarting in his ribcage. John could smell the stuff Sherlock put in his hair to keep it from getting frizzy.

As soon as John turned to face him, Sherlock locked eyes with him and said, "Now then," and began to touch himself through his pyjamas, dragging the heel of his hand back and forth over the outline of his cock. His head lolled back, though he kept one eye on John to make certain he was still watching. He cupped his hand to gather his soft cock and balls, gently squeezing them through the fabric. "Tell me," he said.

John sat up properly and fell dutifully into the routine. He dropped his voice low.

"You were brilliant today," he said. "You know you always amaze me."

Between teasing rubs and soft unashamed grunts, Sherlock said, "Go on."

"When you took one look at the strangulation marks on the victim's neck and determined that the killer was polydactylous, I mean, you were just stunning."

John paused to watch Sherlock reach into his pyjamas with one hand and tug the waistband down with the other, pulling out a fledgling erection. It was so pink against the nest of dark curls, shiny and moist where the foreskin was already drawn back slightly. Sherlock lifted his arse and shoved his pyjamas down to mid-thigh.

When John felt the silence had gone on too long, he continued:

"I loved watching you do it. You made that first deduction, and then more just started coming, faster and faster."

Sherlock rucked up his shirt, splaying long fingers over his belly, teasing the sensitive flesh with a long, slow swipe. He looked down at himself, stroking his pubic hair reverently before tentatively taking himself in hand, as though he were exploring a new lover's body.

"The anticipation was so wonderful and agonizing," John said huskily. "Watching that intense look on your face, waiting for you speak and just blow everyone's minds over and over again. Every time I see you do it, it's just as exciting as the first time...when you did it to me."

Sherlock gave a little growl. He was no longer teasing himself. He gave each stroke a little twist at the end. It had taken some practice, but John now knew just the right things to say.

"You certainly showed everyone," John said. "They didn't want to believe you, but you were right all along. It would be so much easier if people just listened to you, wouldn’t it? But ordinary people can't deal with it. They can't handle your enormous intellect."

Sherlock's foreskin, thick and velvety when he'd begun, was now petal-thin and stretched taut over the shaft. He squeezed tight and pulled hard, drawing the sheath back and forth over the obscene wet pink glans.

John licked his lips, and said, "Would you, er...did you want some help?"

With an unambiguous tilting of his head against the back of the sofa, Sherlock said, flatly, "No."

"Right." John cleared his throat, and continued. "You...you always know just the right spot to examine."

Sherlock was focusing more on the head of his cock now, dragging out the end of each stroke. He put his thumb on the slit, not just teasing it but rubbing it hard, making himself squirm.

"You see," John gulped, "every little detail. You show us all the things we didn’t even know we were looking for. I could have watched you all night. And I know you could have done it all night, if need be."

With his free hand, Sherlock yanked the hem of his t-shirt further up and out of the way, revealing all of his taut, quivering belly. He kept his other hand still now, his hips rolling as he fucked the tight fist of it. The slick red head of his cock emerged, over and over, each time accompanied by a tiny wet sound.

"What would the police do without you? What would London do without you?" John had to lean in a little now, speak closer to Sherlock’s ear, for fear he wouldn’t be heard over Sherlock's gasps. "This city needs you so badly. It loves you, Sherlock. London loves you."

Suddenly Sherlock cried out, a sharp moan of ecstasy and, frankly, agreement. He took in air for a series of powerful grunts, and his head jerked forward so he could watch himself ejaculate with half-lidded eyes and an open, heart-shaped mouth. He milked himself across his flat belly, three hard pulses, then he let his head fall back, and his hand fell to his side. There was a little smug quirk to his mouth.

After a minute or two of silent stillness, John always felt as though he should say something more. He looked around; Sherlock had moved the box of tissues somewhere. "How do you feel?" he asked.

Sherlock stretched his legs, flexed his toes, and sighed happily. "Exquisite."

"Hmm."

"And hungry still." Sherlock raised his head. "Are there any wontons left?"


End file.
